The afternoon sun hovered like a lazy dragon above the sprawling Mumbai skyline, painting its heat onto the sluggish metal flow of the city's traffic. The air buzzed with impatience and smog, yet inside a cream-colored Ambassador car crawling through the snarl, one man whistled cheerfully—unbothered, unhurried.
Vikram Das adjusted the rearview mirror, tilting it just enough to see his own amused expression. A melody from the golden era of Bollywood flowed from the dusty radio. His fingers danced on the steering wheel in sync with the tabla beats, and he chuckled under his breath.
"Aah… this is life," he whispered to himself. "No better joy than discovering a lost cultivation technique and getting to hear Mukesh sing about heartbreak. What contrast."
